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Family Daze
Father-daughter affair turns into a father's only project
Sportsmanship lesson may have been lost in competition
By Debbie Farmer
This year my husband and daughter took part in the Pinewood Derby, a race sponsored by their Indian Guide troop. They had three weeks to make a wooden car that would roll down a 30-foot, inclined track faster than all of the others.
My husband was anxious to get started, but I grew worried when he returned from a troop meeting with his car kit: a seven-inch block of wood, and a handful of screws and four wheels in a brown paper bag.
"This is going to be the winning race car," he said.
"The race isn't about winning," I said. "It's just a good opportunity to spend quality time with your daughter."
"You're absolutely right." He poured the contents of the bag onto the table.
Our daughter looked skeptical. I wasn't convinced either, but I decided to leave him alone since it was his project and I didn't know how to run the power tools. Besides, it was intriguing to see my husband, who had difficulty assembling inflatable objects, convert a rectangular wooden block into a functional racing vehicle.
I was proud of his enthusiasm until I realized his definition of father-daughter project was to cut, measure, saw and sand the entire car, while my daughter watched.
Three weekends later the whirring of power tools stopped, and he emerged from the garage, bearing a seven-inch, red Porsche with tinted windows, louvers, dual spoilers and an automatic sun roof. The only thing missing was Malibu Barbie in a bikini, propped in the passenger seat.
"Our car is definitely going to be the fastest," he said. "But don't touch it!" He held it over his head. "I have everything in perfect balance. The weights are centered on the bottom of the car, I polished the axles and spin-balanced the tires."
On the day of the race the girls in the troop gathered around the display table as they waited for the race to begin. I noticed there were three categories: Nascar racers (made by handy fathers who knew how to use power tools); rectangle cars (made by fathers who only had a set of screwdrivers and sandpaper); and sports cars (made by fathers in the midst of midlife crisis).
"Which one is yours?" my daughter asked her friend.
"That one." She pointed to a purple convertible with a Donald Duck hood ornament. "My daddy says it's going to win."
I wondered where the lesson in sportsmanship had gone. I just couldn't understand the competitiveness over a simple wooden car.
I guided the girls to the track with the other participants and waited for the race to begin. The troop leader explained that five cars would compete against each other in a series of eliminating races. I held my breath when I saw my daughter's car at the starting line for the first race. "Go!" I shouted, as the troop leader lifted the starting gate.
I watched in horror as her car meandered down the track as if it were taking a leisurely Sunday drive on a scenic highway. I thought I saw several people yawn when it finally crossed the finish line in last place.
The second race went better, until her car was overtaken in the final stretch by a red convertible driven by a Spice girl doll. By the time her car lost the third race she looked as if she was going to cry.
"That's okay, Honey." My husband put her arm around her. "The Pinewood Derby is not about competing. It's about working to do your personal best." He paused. "No matter what happens, you're a winner for trying." I stared at my husband. "I'm glad we're not like those pushy, competitive parents who spoil it for their children," he said.
"Me, too," I nodded. I was glad our daughter had learned a more important lesson than winning. Besides, I had plenty of time to figure out how to rebalance the wheels, realign the axle, and redistribute the weights on the car for next year's race.
Debbie Farmer can be contacted at familydaze@home.com.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
